


Penelope and Telemachus

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [78]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Emotional Baggage, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Excessive Drinking, Guilty Dean, Hurt, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Lust, M/M, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Post-Series, Relapsing, Sibling Incest, Underage Drinking, Vomiting, the odyssey references
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-20 17:10:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3658440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean struggles with his decisions and actions in the past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penelope and Telemachus

Someone once said that relapse is part of recovery.

And recovery is an ongoing process.

Homer was blind. He never intended for some fifteen year old kid to forget to return a copy of _The Odyssey_ to the last school he attended, and well, what the fuck, it was already in his backpack so he might as well look at the assignment some teacher he’d never see again had given them three weeks ago. Certainly, Homer never imagined that his epic would land in the grubby hands of some snot nosed kid half in love with his eleven year old brother? This perverted monster, decked out in thrift store, army surplus shit, read through it on the drive from St. Louis to Cleveland. It kept his hands off of his own cock and the rising bile in the back of his throat at bay.

Finished, the monster slithered out of his scratchy motel bed—his own tonight, because Dad booked two rooms for what he called privacy, but what Dean knew was a test—and slipped into the bathroom. It was yet another… another fucking filthy motel with pitiful walls and permanent stains that whispered dirty things to its temporary inhabitants.

Odysseus left.

What were Penelope and Telemachus supposed to do?

What exactly were they supposed to do?

They were only as Odysseus made them. And who is to say that the whole of what Odysseus reported of his journeys wasn’t a load of shit? One minute he’s spurning Calypso’s advances, the next minute Hermes is pleading for his release, and another fucking minute later, Poseidon is losing his shit and sinking Odysseus to his watery grave. But wait! Just wait! Odysseus doesn’t drown; the sea nymph Ino helps him the fuck out. It goes on like that. Had to kill a kelpie in Washington. Had to salt and burn a spirit somewhere in Wyoming. Had to track down a ghoul in South Dakota. Didn’t it all start to sound the same after a while? Stay here. Shoot first. Ask questions later.

Look after your brother.

It started young for Dean. His feelings grew underneath his skin, forming into cartilage over the knobs of his spine. These ideas settled over each vertebra. With every dimpled smile and every indignant pout, a new formation took place, solidifying and hardening.

Look after your brother.

Odysseus was in Dean’s head that night, alternating between grumbles and screams. If Dad was bent on ruining the lives, why couldn’t Dean to the same for himself? There was no place to hide, nowhere he could stuff the mangled remnants of going cold turkey. It always came back.

Maybe he cost Sam something greater than his virginity.

Maybe he should have been doing something else other than stuffing his bloated, drooling cock into his little brother’s mouth.

She couldn’t have any of The Suitors. But she had her son.

Dean drank an entire bottle of pilfered Jack in that motel bathroom. John found him, passed out in the bathtub, vomit everywhere. He’d even managed to hurl chunks of their Americana diner two-plate special on the shower curtain. ‘Course he learned good from his old man. If he had to drink himself away for ten years, then he’d pass out on his side. All he could think about was gagging Sam with the length of his cock, cramming it in until his balls slapped against Sam’s chin.

In John’s arms, after a splash of cold water to his face, Dean threw up again.

Jack straight.

Dean twisted.

Look after your brother.

 

On a Tuesday night, Dean’s shoulders heave. He clings to the toilet bowl like Odysseus on that ridiculous raft. Is there an Ino for old drunks, for sissies with a proclivity towards eleven year old little brothers, for grown men with a penchant towards spending every waking moment with that brother?

Sound echoes off the rim of the bowl.

“Sammy.”

Jack straight.

Dean sorry.

Some things we never grow out of.

Sam has the dryer going with a sweater inside it, warming it up so he can drape it over Dean’s shoulders in a few minutes. There is no harshness to Sam’s voice, touch, or manner—not even when he’s wiping the sour puke off of Dean’s mouth.

“Dean.”

Relapse is part of recovery. And recovery is an ongoing process.

Sam said that. He says it now.

 

Sam here.

Sam here always.

**Author's Note:**

> something a little darker for these guys, just to balance everything out. 
> 
> i think this is something that will never really go away for them. that's just being realistic.


End file.
